_Chimène_ (_chimene_) wrote in deepthinkers,

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Something for You All To Savor

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Hello, Chimene
I love this poem. Thank you for posting. This is my first time visiting this journal and think I'd like to stick around. With your consent, I'd like to add you to my friend list.


"He set his course by moon lit ways, an etheral shadow taking flight
Till found he day light's brilliant rays that freed him from the night."
Yes, with the exception that you were only joking about loving that poem! ;p
Go ahead. I am warning you though- strange and awful things have happened to people who chose to read my blogs.
Thanks. In all truth, I do like this poem...and I am one of the deep thinkers that this site pokes fun at. But, that's o.k., I easily make fun of myself. Life is too short to take everything seriously. ~sheepish grin

This site, from what I understand, doesn't necessarily make fun of deep thinkers, but rather of pretentious people who think their thoughts are deep.

What about the poem did you like? If you can understand it, feel free to explain it to me, b/c I really don't. The author did happen to be under the influence of laudanum when he wrote it though.

Good luck ;p
I appreciate the beautifully descriptive and poetic narrative found within the piece, detailing his dream, vision, drug trip...whatever. The poem speaks of finding Xanadu, which, I believe, is the mythological place of eternal pleasure wherein the Muses of Zeus were believed to reside and no mortal had ever yet attained. He speaks of finding paradise, then counting the cost of remaining there.
I simply like the poem for its imagery and romantic beauty.
I found another poem on the site you shared from Colleredge; maybe you'll like it better...maybe not:


All thoughts, all passions, all delights
Whatever stirs this mortal frame
All are but ministers of Love
And feed his sacred flame

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruined tower

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve
And she was there, my hope, my joy
My own dear Genevieve

She leant against the arméd man
The statue of the arméd knight
She stood and listened to my lay
Amid the lingering light

Few sorrows hath she of her own
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve

I played a soft and doleful air
I sang an old and moving story
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary

She listened with a flitting blush
With downcast eyes and modest grace
For well she know, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land

I told her how he pined: and ah
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own

She listened with a flitting blush
With downcast eyes, and modest grace
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight
And that he crossed the mountain-woods
Nor rested day nor night

That sometimes from the savage den
And sometimes from the darksome shade
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright
And that he knew it was a Fiend
This miserable Knight

And that unknowing what he did
He leaped amid a murderous band
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land

And how she wept and clasped his knees
And how she tended him in vain
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain

And that she nursed him in a cave
And how his madness went away
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay

His dying words--but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty
My faultering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve
The music and the doleful tale
The rich and balmy eve

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope
An undistinguishable throng
And gentle wishes long subdued
Subdued and cherished long

She wept with pity and delight
She blushed with love, and virgin-shame
And like the murmur of a dream
I heard her breathe my name

Her bosom heaved; she stepped aside
As conscious of my look she stepped
The suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept

She half enclosed me with her arms
She pressed me with a meek embrace
And bending back her head, looked up
And gazed upon my face

'Twas partly love, and partly fear
And partly 'twas a bashful art
That I might rather feel, than see
The swelling of her heart

I calmed her fears, and she was calm
And told her love with virgin pride
And so I won my Genevieve
My bright and beauteous Bride
I just linked to this journal from another, and the post about Kubla Khan caught my attention. It's really a shame Coleridge didn't get to finish this poem. This is something my boyfriend and I have discussed quite a bit, as he is a big fan. I found a book for him recently that is one author's interpretation of the way the poem would/should have ended. It's called The Completion of Kubla Khan, and it's by Julio Delatorre. Something you might want to check out if you have an interest. It's more about finishing the work than offering an interpretation, but it's pretty interesting, anyway.
I agree about the work being incomplete... it is quite a shame. However, the circumstance which caused Coleridge to lose his place in the narrative is quite laughably representative of the state of our world. It's piquant... ironic even.
From Kubla Khan:
"And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,"

"But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !"

I Really don't get it. Maybe you deep thinkers can explain it to me. ;)

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